


Succor

by lacrimalis



Series: Solace in Shadows [2]
Category: Styx: Shards of Darkness
Genre: Alcohol, Body Worship/Exploration, Dark Elves, Djarak Is Who, Drug Withdrawal, Goblin/Dark Elf Relationship, Goblins, Interspecies, M/M, Medium Burn, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, Touch-Starved, Who Wants To Touch A Nasty Goblin???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-11-26 11:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18180245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: After Lyssril is slain, Styx expects Djarak to fuck off back to Korrangar to help his people rebuild what Lyssril destroyed.What Styx doesn't expect is how Djarak keeps comingback.





	1. Chapter 1

Styx likes staying out of trouble, and he likes a good lay.

Considering his mindless kin have made a name for themselves causing trouble wherever they go, that makes the first of those difficult. The second doubly so.

Used to be his money was more or less good, if he found a whorehouse unsavory enough not to ask any inconvenient questions. He’d slap a pouch of ill-gotten gold on the counter, and despite the sneers of disgust, he’d get what he was after – under the assumption he was a stunted orc, or something.

Now that goblins are more pests than fairy tales, he has a hard time passing as anything but that: a _pest._ Showing his face at a whorehouse these days is likely to get him a boot in the ass, if not the full force of the guild’s burgeoning militia.

He and Helledryn might have an understanding, but Styx imagines she’d be hard-pressed to convince the proprietors of the local brothels to take his money.

It’s left him ornery and frustrated for longer than he cares to keep track. Taking himself in hand offers a brief respite, but he’s aching for that little something extra you get when it’s another person’s hands on you.

The deprivation is reminiscent of the itch of amber addiction: the jitters, the impatience, the sensation of his skin being stitched on too tight. Styx has never hesitated to indulge in his vices before – theft, murder, amber, alcohol, hallucinogens... but all these are things he can get on his _own._

No solitary act or illegal substance can slake this particular thirst.

And ever since they collaborated on Lyssril's assassination, Djarak has decided he's a fucking rehab officer now. So Styx can't even use _amber_ to take the edge off – not unless he wants to give up the dark elf's invaluable information-gathering skills, and put up with his cold shoulder routine besides.

He's not in any shape to be taking jobs with how sexually distracted he is, and the unpredictable withdrawal symptoms besides – but he takes a few easy ones anyway, just to keep his stash lined comfortably with gold. Djarak even contributes a little on his weekly visits, bringing food and other supplies if Styx mentions he needs something.

Styx thinks this is only fair, since the dark elf is half the reason for his current predicament anyway.

He can't restrain his enthusiasm for good food though, and Djarak seems to interpret his enthusiasm as gratitude. Styx isn't about to disabuse the dark elf of the assumption. Djarak can think whatever he wants about Styx's feelings on the matter, as long as he keeps the food coming.

On top of bringing him food, the dark elf isn’t bad conversation, and it's easier for Styx to push the aches of deprivation and withdrawal to the back of his mind when he has someone to talk to. Djarak never seems to mind Styx yammering his ear off, and this too, Styx thinks he's owed.

If Djarak is going to _insist_ on Styx kicking the amber, the least he can do is provide a distraction when the cravings start to scatter Styx's thoughts.

Having exhausted other topics, and with Djarak never looking in any particular rush to leave, Styx eventually asks what the hell the dark elf is doing these days. He learns that Djarak has a job in the city, doing some kind of race relations schtick. Which is fucking rich, considering how many ambassadors they killed between the two of them back in Korrangar. Styx doesn't waste a single opportunity to prod him about it, suggesting the dark elf must have a death wish to go into politics. Djarak meets these jibes with dry assurances that he's far more capable than those soft-handed politicians had been.

And, well. Styx can hardly refute the claim after seeing the dark elf in action.

Not that that stops him cracking wise about Djarak's own soft hands.

But since Djarak _does_ have other responsibilities to attend to, and since he seems to think weaning Styx off of amber is only his responsibility one or two days out of the week (instead of Styx's preferred _zero days out of the week_ ), he isn't always around to shoot the breeze with a bored and jittery goblin.

All this to say Styx finds himself with a surplus of free time on his hands, and not much to do with it.

He figures if he’s going to be laid up with withdrawal symptoms for the foreseeable future, he might as well maintain his gear in preparation for when he's well enough to get back to work.

So he gathers his thoughts long enough to filch a small washtub from a house down in Thoben, and he uses the rainwater he collects for drinking to scrub his leathers and underwear. He hasn't washed his clothes in ages, and that's _counting_ his romp through the pond in the Korrangar gardens to find the human ambassador Djarak killed.

Acid and blood stains prove particularly stubborn, and he does more wearing holes with his scrubbing than anything else. His clothes have always been ratty, but it's like the grime and muck were the last things holding it all together, and the water just dissolved what little remained.

His underwear doesn’t survive the ordeal.

By the time he's down to his last serviceable set of clothes, his hands have pruned up and he has a lot fewer clothes than what he started with. He decides not to wash his last set after all, in case _those_ fall apart too. When he’s done he sets them out to dry, and he keeps coming back to check on them only to find they’re _still_ damp. Something he probably should have expected with Thoben’s cold and humid climes, but he’s never done _laundry_ before, so how the hell should he know how long it’s supposed to take?

Styx learns it takes three days without rain for his clothes to be dry to the touch. Their ripe stench is subdued now, overpowered by the new scent of mildew from sitting wet for  so long. He has to stitch what remains from what he ruined into a single clashing outfit, and it makes him look like the shadowy alter-ego of a foppish court jester. He grimaces to think of the sight he must make.

Styx is lucky his line of work usually involves not being seen at all, because he’s sure as shit not intimidating anyone with this new look.

He’ll have to ask Helledryn or Djarak to bring him some fabric to make new clothes, and he’s running low on favors to cash in.

Styx seriously considers never washing his clothes again after that. Logically he knows it’s only from being so long neglected that they fell apart the first time they were introduced to soap and water. But it’s a _pain._ He doesn’t care whether they smell or not, so there’s little point in doing it.

But it feels surprisingly nice to have mostly-clean clothes on his skin.

 _Maybe_ he’ll keep washing them, he thinks as he runs a hand over the fabric free of stiff patches and tacky stains. He’ll have to wait until he has more clothes before he tries his hand at it again, though.

In light of the disaster laundry turned out to be, Styx shifts his focus to his weapons.

This turns out, probably predictably, just as disastrously.

The normally soothing sound of the whetstone gives him headaches now. He grits his teeth to endure it, but that just makes the headache worse. Thus distracted, Styx ends up oversharpening one of his favorite daggers – the one he’d forged himself when he first arrived in Thoben. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it, and the body of the blade is so diminished that it falls out of its sheath one morning while he's climbing back to his hideout.

It falls into the murky swamp below, and Styx can't fucking _swim,_ so he guesses he can kiss that dagger goodbye.

It's a minor loss, all things considered. He still has that lovely ceremonial dagger he got from Korrangar, and plenty more besides. He's not above using his bare hands to get a job done either, and he _does_ still have his bolts and acid traps in a pinch. It would be worse if he lost it in the middle of a job, where a dagger clattering noisily onto a hardwood floor would spell disaster. Since he's already on his way home, it barely even rates as an inconvenience.

But on top of everything else Styx is dealing with, it stings. He takes pride in his thievery skills, sure. The satisfying _clink_ of stolen gold is music to his ears, and there's nothing better than the look on some sucker's face when they realize their shit is missing.

There's a different kind of pride, though, in having something he's made for himself.

Styx enjoys the comfort of wearing clothes and armor he tailored to his own specifications, the familiarity of handling a blade he's made with his own two hands, for his own purposes. When he masters his bitter disappointment and makes it the rest of the way back to his den of clutter and oddments, Styx looks around and thinks, _I made this._

It bothers him unaccountably to have lost one of the few things he’s made for himself.

He makes his way to the wardrobe to pick out a different dagger, tossing the useless sheath to the floor, where it remains until Djarak stops by a few days later.

“I know you don't subscribe to any other race’s standards of living,” Djarak says, immediately taking notice of the discarded sheath and picking it up off the floor, “but it is unlike you to be so careless with your weapons. Where is the dagger that belongs to this sheath?”

Styx grunts unhappily at the reminder, but doesn’t move from the nest of threadbare blankets on his sleeping pallet, where he’d been trying and failing to sleep through a bout of nausea and headaches for the past three hours. “Lost it,” he grumbles.

Djarak’s eyebrows climb up to his hairline. “Is something wrong, my friend?”

Styx snorts and sits up, ignoring the wave of vertigo that comes with movement. He even manages a glib tone when he replies, “Apart from amber cravings and a terminal case of blue balls? Nah, I'm peachy.”

At first, Djarak was touchy about Styx cracking jokes. He lashed out when Styx resorted to humor in dire straits and serious conversations. As they got to know each other, though, Djarak seemed to write off Styx's sarcasm as a simple personality quirk, and he stopped reacting so poorly. Now Djarak just listens like it's anything else Styx has to say, as if he's cataloguing each word and filing it away for later.

 _He's an informant,_ Styx reminds himself. Djarak's currency of preference is _information._ It's not the first time Styx has thought he should be more careful with what he says to the dark elf, but it _is_ the first time he's not exactly sure what he's trying to hide.

“Perhaps a small dose,” Djarak says, to which Styx perks right up. “If you can match the dose with quartz.”

“Ugh,” says Styx, collapsing back onto the pallet and burlap pillow. “Don't see why I gotta kick the habit, now that Lyssril's dead.” It's a well-worn argument between the two of them.

“Quartz weapons are still in circulation,” Djarak delivers his scripted answer, its oft-trodden nature diminishing the heat with which he'd originally chastised the globin for his addiction. “Unless you want to join the scores of goblins perishing each day, you must cease to be a creature of amber.”

“Sure. I'll just die because I got tunnel vision on a job instead.” Styx has bitched plenty about the headaches, the nausea, the dry mouth – not the irritability, but that's evident enough to someone as perceptive as Djarak that it doesn't need mentioning. He hasn't complained about the tunnel vision before. It's something of a recent development.

Djarak’s brow furrows, eyes flashing with insight as he processes this new information. “I hadn't anticipated your withdrawal symptoms would be this severe.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” Styx knows he agreed to this when he agreed to help destroy the amber-making machine. So far Djarak has had the good grace not to throw that back in his face, that Styx _agreed_ to this.

But he might not have, if he'd known what he was signing up for.

“No one else like me in the world, far as I know. There's no telling how bad this'll be,” Styx says morosely. “Maybe it'll kill me,” he adds, hoping Djarak will give up on Styx recovering and start being his supplier, instead of his tormentor.

By the look on Djarak’s face, Styx doesn't think the dark elf is convinced. Of _course_ he's not. Djarak was exiled for refusing Lyssril's ‘sacred amber’, probably lost friends and family to her thrall and her punitive measures. It's too personal for him to let this go.

Djarak could just kill Styx, if he's worried about the goblin being a liability, or if he's that offended that Styx is still using. But he doesn't. Considering how he’d tried to betray Styx in Korrangar by stealing his airship and nearly killing him, it doesn’t really make sense that he’s putting in all this effort. Styx is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Djarak went back to being friendly while they were hunting down Lyssril, and after the deed was done Styx expected Djarak to betray him again. Or fuck off back to Korrangar at least.

He hadn't expected Djarak to take an _interest,_ or make Styx his goddamn pet project.

“You are an… individual, of remarkable strength,” Djarak says, and Styx is too busy being disappointed by the implied ‘no’ to wonder what Djarak was about to call him. “Please try to endure for as long as you can. In the meantime, I will investigate alternative solutions. Satisfied?”

“No,” Styx grumbles, but he climbs out of bed anyway, gathering up his clothes from the stone floor around the mattress. If Djarak has any objections to seeing Styx naked he doesn't voice them, and neither does Styx care enough to watch his face for a reaction while he gets dressed.

Ordinarily he _would_ , since inspiring a reaction in Djarak's stony face is always a rare treat. But he’s not exactly in top form at the moment, so excuse him for not giving a shit what Djarak thinks of a nude goblin.

Once dressed, Styx heads to the workshop, Djarak trailing behind him. His irritation starts to ebb when he sits on one of the crates, anticipation overpowering it. He clenches his fists so his hands won't shake while he waits for Djarak to produce the amber.

From a waist pouch, Djarak pulls out a small stoppered flask.

Evening's dying light shimmers on Thoben's misty cliffs, and the way it glints off the coyly gleaming glass takes Styx's breath away. It's so _small,_ and he stifles a whimper of despair at Djarak’s uncharitable idea of what a ‘dose’ is _._ It’s better than nothing, though. The swirling gold liquid beckons, and his mouth starts watering, he can already _taste_ it–

Styx snatches the vial from Djarak and squeezes it tightly to hide the trembling in his hands. By now the elf is used to his lack of manners and doesn’t comment. Styx’s chipped and blackened nails scrape on the edges of the cork until he manages to pry it free, and he throws his head back and pours the vial's contents into his mouth.

Styx nearly chokes as he groans with a mouthful of amber. Honey-sweet, thick and pure and tingling _amber._ He tries not to think of the fact that it’s made of goblin guts as he holds it in his mouth to savor the taste. Eventually his cravings and disgust win out, and he swallows it down. Some of it dribbles down his chin, and he hastily swipes it up with his thumb and puts it on his tongue where it belongs. The extra rush of those last few drops sends an exquisite shiver through him, and he shakes the vial over his mouth to try and get the dregs.

“Styx, that's enough,” Djarak says, after a minute or so of watching Styx work his tongue over the vial's opening like it's a high-maintenance whore.

“I can still _taste_ it,” Styx insists.

“You've drunk every drop,” Djarak says with something like patient bemusement, “and _then_ some.” Believing the matter to be closed, Djarak gestures for the vial.

Styx stubbornly pops it into the corner of his mouth, keeping it there with his teeth around the neck of the vial, as he hops down and makes his way over to his work bench to prepare the quartz.

“How much quartz do I need?” Styx asks around the obstruction in his mouth.

“Three ounces.”

Styx hums and gets out his scales, his mortar and pestle and his stock of quartz. His hands are sure and steady as he grinds the quartz to a fine powder and scrapes it onto the scale. Djarak watches in silence.

Styx starts rummaging through his supplies to see what he has that’ll make an even three ounces – but then Djarak produces some kind of rectangular cube, which he places on the opposite side of the scale. Figuring his rehab officer knows best, Styx shrugs and fiddles with the portion size until the quartz balances on the scale. He puts the excess quartz away and clears his work area. Finally, he removes the empty vial from his mouth and passes it back to Djarak, who wipes it on the leg of his pants before corking it and tucking it away.

When Styx gathers the measured quartz and pushes it into a neat little line on the table, Djarak starts to say, “How are you planning to,” just as Styx plugs one nostril and snorts the line of quartz.

Styx whoops loudly and leans back in his chair. “ _Man,_ that's good shit. Almost as good as amber.”  White-blue energy travels over his skin in erratic sparks, quelling the amber’s song with its own subsonic vibrations. Djarak makes a small sound, and Styx grins up at him with sparkling quartz residue on his philtrum and upper lip.

The dark elf wears a slightly perturbed expression as he says, “I'm not sure that method of administering the quartz is as safe as some… alternatives.”

Styx flaps a hand flippantly. “Quit worrying, elf. I’ve got a _great_ constitution. I’ll be fine.” He relaxes into the chair and folds his arms behind his head, making himself comfortable.

“Styx,” Djarak says.

“Mm?”

“You have quartz on your upper lip.”

“I’m saving it for later,” Styx says lazily. Djarak sighs and walks away, and Styx blinks and sits up. “Hey,” he calls, rubbing the quartz from his face and sniffling. “I’m feeling spry as a roabie on a rainy day, now that I’ve got my fix. Got any work you need doing? Someone you want dead, something you need stealing? I’m your man – well, goblin, but you get the idea.”

Djarak stands at the rock ledge of Styx’s hideout, arms crossed over his half-bare chest as he stares out over the misty Thoben sunset. Styx comes up to stand beside him. “I may have something for you in a few weeks’ time, but no. I’ve nothing at the moment.”

Styx settles down to sit on the ledge, letting his legs dangle over the hundred-foot drop. “Guess I’ll go on a supply run when you’re heading out, then. In the meantime, gimme the details about this mystery job.”

Djarak glances down at him, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He doesn’t usually get this prissy watching Styx drink amber – at least, not amber he’s _given_ Styx. “What’s with that face?” Styx asks, a little irritated at being given dirty looks when he’d been _good_ today _._ “You usually only look like that when you’re pissed at me for hiding amber.” Which he’s stopped doing. Mostly.

Styx tries to keep the guilt from his face when he thinks of how many stashes Djarak _hasn’t_ found yet.

“Your continued enthusiasm for amber is not inspiring me with confidence.”

Styx squints up at the dark elf. “ _That’s_ what you’re mad about? I’ve been on this shit for decades, y’know? It’s not that easy to quit.”

Djarak meets his gaze, that flash of new information passing through the light of his eyes again. “I have been remiss in my initial assessment of your condition. Perhaps we are moving too quickly, as you said.”

Ten minutes ago, Styx would’ve been overjoyed to hear that. But Djarak’s stony face and disapproving frown are getting to Styx. He used to _like_ amber, apart from the voices, but with Djarak’s disappointment and his own disgust with its means of production, Styx hates it. Hates that he’s addicted to it, the power it has over him, what Lyssril used it for.

Despite his claims of superior constitution, Styx feels the amber Djarak gave him settle uneasily in his stomach.

“You think I can’t do it,” Styx says, pointing accusatorily the elf.

“I didn’t say that,” Djarak says – but he’s _thinking_ it, Styx can _tell._

“Yeah, yeah,” Styx says, standing up. “Poor Styx, dumb greenskin little bastard, can’t even stop drinking goblin blood without whining about it.” He stomps back to the work bench, shoulders hunched.

“I made no such–” Djarak cuts himself off as Styx begins prying up the floorboards. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Styx grunts, pulling the floorboards free and digging out a crate full of amber vials.

Momentarily free from the cravings and fueled by spite, Styx uncovers all his stashes before he can change his mind. He goes to his bookshelf, and the chest by his sleeping pallet, and a concealed cavity in the rock face of the cliff his hideout is built into, producing vial after vial of amber. Even the carefully hidden clusters of raw amber chunks come out of their nooks and crannies.

In his frenzy, Styx knocks over a sealed crate he doesn’t have the patience to open properly, and it breaks apart into boards and splinters, sending vials skittering across the floor and shattering on the stone.

Styx glances periodically at Djarak, watching as the elf's face transforms slowly from outrage to incredulity.

“There,” Styx says, pushing three crates’ worth to Djarak’s side where he still stands at the rock ledge. “That should be the last of it. Guess I could’ve forgotten something..."

Djarak stares at the crates full of amber, like he can’t decide if he’s angry or impressed.

Styx gestures toward the the haul invitingly. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Why would you–” Djarak begins, then pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “In deference to your recovery, _you_ should be the one to dispose of them.”

“Yeah, but it’s personal for you,” Styx says, because it’s a given.

Djarak looks at Styx like he’s beginning to realize he doesn’t understand the goblin after all.

“Here, I’ll start,” Styx says, and he grabs the topmost crate. The vials clink and clatter merrily.

Styx tosses the crate over the edge.

They watch as the vials fly from the crate and tumble down to the swamp below. Some of them crash on the rocks at the base of the cliff, splattering like golden brainmatter. A weight feels as if it’s lifted from Styx’s shoulders.

“Well?” he says, turning to Djarak.

Djarak looks _hilariously_ tempted. “It... would be more responsible to dispose of them by–"

“Do I look responsible to you?” Styx demands. “Besides, this is _Thoben._ It’s a goddamn swamp. It’s not like anybody _drinks_ from it, and I doubt it’s clean enough for anything to be living in that muck.”

Djarak bites his lip, and one of his canines pokes out of his mouth. Styx blames his non-existent sex life for making the sight kind of hot.

Styx nudges one of the stray vials with his toe. He watches Djarak’s face as he tracks the vial’s gentle progress toward the edge, over which it vanishes.

“We should at least save the vials,” Djarak frets.

He’s never seen Djarak _fret_ about anything. The closest he ever comes to fretting is that thoughtful look he gets when he’s piecing something together, planning his next move.

Styx picks up another vial of amber and tosses it in his hand. “Got plenty. Why, you need ‘em?”

“... No,” Djarak admits.

Styx chucks the vial as far as he can, and it splashes satisfyingly in the swamp below. “You _sure_ you don’t wanna get in on this?” He waves the next vial teasingly.

Djarak worries his lip a little more with indecision, and Styx raises an eyebrow in challenge. Then, slowly, Djarak accepts the vial. Their fingers brush, and it sends a little thrill through Styx.

Djarak stares into the glass vial's glowing contents: poisoned, misappropriated mana. Glints of gold reflect in his cold silvery eyes. He looks out over Thoben.

Styx leans back on his heels and waits.

Djarak rears his arm back and throws the vial with a shout of wordless fury, face contorted in rage. It travels in a high, clean arc, despite the spin the bottle's neck gives it, before it breaks the surface of the swamp with a far-off 'plop’. It travels much farther than Styx's throw. In fairness, Djarak has the advantage of height.

“Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talking about!” Styx crows. Djarak looks at his throwing hand like he doesn't recognize it – but before he can get all broody and introspective, Styx puts another vial in his open palm. “Hey – bet you can't throw this one even farther.”

Djarak takes the vial much more confidently the second time around. “How little faith you have in me,” he says with a crooked grin.

“Well, you _did_ try to steal my airship,” Styx reminds him. “I think I'm entitled to a little doubt.”

Djarak scoffs airily. “You would have done the same.”

Styx shrugs and grins, picking up a vial of his own. “Fair enough.”

They throw at the same time, and the flasks go careening over the swamp. They shatter  from the surface tension of the water, leaving puddles of gold and glittering glass shards floating in their wake.

Djarak's still goes farther.

“You were saying?” Djarak says, a coy smile revealing one of his flint-sharp canines. He's already reaching for another vial.

“Lucky throw,” says Styx, though he can't stifle his own answering smile.

They make short work of the second crate, and Styx's arm starts getting tired from trying to keep up with Djarak. He doesn't have the heart to begrudge the elf his enthusiasm, though – not when he's grinning with such fierce, vindicated joy.

Djarak saves Styx's arm from cramping up when he kicks the last crate over the edge, snarling wildly.

It plummets to the swamp below with a satisfying cacophony of breaking wood and glass.

Styx grins as he watches Djarak catch his breath. Seeing all the foreign expressions pass over the elf's face is new and exciting, and he’d like nothing more than to scratch little lines into Djarak’s exposed chest and watch him make even _more_ expressions.

It’s easy to brush the thoughts aside with the double high of amber and quartz coursing through him, and the rush of destroying the amber that has wronged them both so grievously.

Besides, Djarak probably doesn't fuck goblins.

“Well, that was fun,” Styx says. He’s already starting to dread the consequences of what he just allowed to happen, but for now he’s determined to bask in the satisfied glow of kicking a habit and throwing shit.

“Yes, it was,” Djarak says once he's caught his breath, sounding surprised despite himself.

Styx looks over at the dark elf as he settles down beside him on the ledge, dangling his legs over it as Styx had done earlier. Styx sits down with him and asks, “You don’t really let loose much, huh?”

“I _was_ preoccupied with the liberation of my people for a long while,” Djarak reminds him, and Styx is amazed to hear a note of _humor_ in the elf’s voice. Djarak has joked with Styx before, but never about his grim campaign against Lyssril.

Well, he’d be damned. Would wonders never cease?

“But even before my exile, it was not in the nature of my people to... carouse, as other races do.”

“Damn,” says Styx, “sounds like you elves had scepters up your asses long before Lyssril put them up there with her greasy hands.”

Djarak looks like he wants to be angry at the insult, but when he looks over at Styx his lips turn upward traitorously in amusement. “Maybe so.”

“That’s it,” Styx says, clapping his hands to seal his decision. “You’re drinking with me and Helledryn tonight.”

Djarak’s laugh is disbelieving, but Styx is stuck on the fact that Djarak just _laughed._ “I am a diplomat, Styx. I can hardly afford to get intoxicated whenever I want.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you came to visit,” Styx tells him with a grin. “Helledryn’s the guild master, and _she_ has time to get white girl wasted with a low-life like me. Besides, it’s uh, networking.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah, humans won’t respect you if you don’t drink with them. Very important diplomatic tradition.”

“Is that so,” Djarak says indulgently. “And you’ve learned this in all your years of... diplomacy?”

Styx crosses his arms. “Assassination is a _type_ of diplomacy,” he says defensively.

“If that is the case, then you are the most accomplished ‘diplomat’ I’ve ever met.”

“We'll toast to diplomacy, then.”

That gets Djarak to exhale sharply through his nose, and Styx's eyes light up. Maybe he'll get another proper laugh out of the elf before the night is out.


	2. Chapter 2

Styx shoos Djarak into the bedroom area so he can change his clothes before they go out. When Djarak arrived, Styx had put on his awful, stitched-together court jester-looking get-up, since it was closest to hand. But he's not about to go to _Helledryn_ looking like that, or she'll laugh him right out of her office.

As Styx clambers over the clutter to reach the closet, that thought strikes him as strange – because Styx doesn't think he cares _more_ about Helledryn's opinion than Djarak's. It's not even that he minds _less_ when Djarak sees him out of sorts, because he _does_ mind, actually, not that Djarak ever fucking _asks_ before dropping in.

It's just that Djarak has been arriving unannounced and imposing his good will on Styx for _weeks,_ and Styx has kind of just… gotten used to it.

Putting Djarak's aggressive helpfulness out of mind, Styx opens his closet and pulls out the last decent set of clothing he has: the dark trousers and hood of his dwarven invisibility cloak. As he turns it over in his hands to inspect it for holes and stains (not that he'd have anything else to wear if his search came up with any unsightly marks), the gleam of its satiny enchanted fabric shines in the dusky light.

It’s the nicest thing he owns, and it’s of _dwarven_ make. Styx isn’t exactly in a position to tout his racial pride – and what would _that_ even look like? Walking around buck naked and snarling like an animal? Not like goblins have a lot to be proud of, except menacing all the other sentient races and earning the moniker of _The Green Plague._

Styx snorts and smiles wryly. Okay, he’s a _little_ proud of that.

He dresses in the fine ill-gotten cloak, running his hands along the fabric in begrudging admiration.

"All right, I'm ready," Styx calls.

Djarak steps back into the workshop and raises his eyebrows. "I've never seen you wear _that_ before."

Styx shrugs. "My other clothes are at the dry cleaners," he grumbles.

Djarak's eyes are a little _too_ sharp as they take Styx in, then look unmistakably at the clownish tunic of grimy rainbows Styx has discarded on the floor.

Styx kicks it under the work table without looking at it.

"Hey, my eyes are up here," Styx says, snapping his finger impatiently until Djarak quits analyzing his poor living situation. "Now are we gonna stand here all night, or are we gonna fucking drink?"

* * *

Thoben’s shanty town has been rebuilding nicely, now that the Green Plague has been dealt with. Styx doesn’t like watching his kin get slain, but evidently they’re not as stupid as they act; after the introduction of quartz weapons to the populace, the other goblins have mostly gone to ground and fled to greener pastures, leaving the residents of Thoben unmolested while they rebuild their slum into something worth living in.

Between Styx and Djarak’s months-long journey hunting down Lyssril, and Helledryn’s efforts as guildmaster, time and attention have made the shambling wreckage into something a little more hospitable.

Gone are the rotting walkways and abandoned homes, the moldering ladders and shop fronts. The new homes and shops are built from planks of deep red wood, imported, and they shine with a waxy coating that staves off Thoben's perpetual humidity. Patrols are regular and regimented, and every night the guild lights sturdy iron lanterns in the streets and replenishes their oil.

A lot of these developments are damn inconvenient for Styx, but at least his home is no longer an eyesore. Helledryn even had the courtesy to direct the reconstruction efforts just so, such that a mostly-uninterrupted line of shadow leads from Styx’s hideout to her office – so he can drop by whenever he wants.

The nice thing about going into town with someone else is that Styx doesn’t _have_ to skulk around to avoid patrols and get Helledryn's attention. Her personal retinue of guards may know of her agreement with Styx, but it’s rare for them to be the only ones around. By contrast, all Djarak has to do is tell the working stiffs he has urgent ambassador business with the guildmaster, and they part with all the resistance of a gauzy curtain.

“Ambassador Djarak,” she says from her desk with a note of surprise, finishing what she’s writing before setting her quill down and giving the elf her full attention. “How might I be of assistance?”

“Guildmaster Helledryn,” Djarak says with a polite nod. “I come at the behest of our mutual acquaintance.”

Helledryn’s brow furrows, and she waves the guards in the room away. A few moments after the door shuts behind them, she says, “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah,” Styx says before dropping down from the rafters. “You’re burning the midnight oil again.”

The trepidation in her face vanishes, and she offers her guests a wry smile. “The wheels of politics don't stop turning when I leave my office, Styx. My work is never done.”

Styx wanders leisurely toward the desk. “So it’ll still be there in the morning,” he insists, when Djarak’s look of sympathy tells him the elf won’t be helping him wheedle Helledryn into taking the night off. “I told Djarak we’d drink tonight. You wouldn’t wanna make me a liar, would you?”

Helledryn places her chin in her hand, amused. “It would hardly worsen your reputation if I did, considering everything else you are.”

“Ouch. Words hurt, Helledryn,” Styx says, clutching his chest as if to staunch the bleeding. “C’mon, what difference is one night gonna make?”

Helledryn snorts, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Nice try, you little snot. I’ve seen you destabilize entire _kingdoms_ in one night.”

“And if we’re drinking together, then you’ll know right where I am! What better way to make sure I’m not up to no good? Eh?” he tries.

Helledryn sighs, and she looks like she’s going to say ‘no’ and make Styx look like a jackass for bringing Djarak all this way for nothing.

“As a matter of fact,” Djarak _finally_ chimes in _, welcome to the party, you fucking asshole,_ “I have a job for Styx in the coming weeks, the details of which may be of interest to you.”

Styx whips his head around to look at Djarak, who holds Helledryn’s gaze – but he doesn’t need to meet the goblin’s eyes for Styx to see that glint of a plot unfolding. He knows the elf mentioned a job earlier, but he’d forgotten about it in the intervening destruction of his entire amber cache. Styx has no idea what the details are, but he’s nothing if not an expert in catching opportunities where they fall.

Styx inhales through his teeth and winces. “I dunno, Djarak, you sure Helledryn needs to hear about that? It sounds like pretty sensitive stuff..." He keeps his eyes on Djarak, but he hears the creak of Helledryn’s chair as she leans forward in interest.

Djarak makes a thoughtful sound. “... No, perhaps not,” he eventually says. “But over a few drinks, who knows? I may be feeling more divulgatory.”

Helledryn’s chair scrapes back on the hardwood floor, and Styx sends up a silent cheer for Djarak’s cunning. “Meet me in the tavern east of Thoben,” she says.

Styx knows the place. He turns to Helledryn and raises a skeptical brow. “ _That_ shithole?” It’s where he and Helledryn first met, and he can appreciate the sentimental significance, he _guesses_ – but he figured the guildmaster could request a private room someplace a _little_ bit nicer.

Helledryn throws him a grin, the nasty scar beneath her mouth stretching to accommodate it. “You haven’t been back there since Korrangar, right? I’ll have you know it’s a respectable establishment, these days.”

“Great,” Styx says, “so much for going there to get jobs.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Styx,” Helledryn says as she pushes her chair in and retrieves her cloak from the hook by the door. “Ambassador Djarak and I will meet you there.”

Pleased at having gotten what he wanted (and at Djarak’s eleventh-hour save), Styx can’t help but grin when he says, “Yeah, yeah. They better not throw me out just because they're _a respectable establishment_ now.”

As Styx climbs up a bookshelf and back into the rafters, Helledryn calls, “I wouldn’t worry. You know the bartender, don’t you?”

* * *

From the outside, Styx can see the place has been restored enough to have a signpost hanging above the door: _The Brown Bird Tavern,_ it reads, which sounds just dull and unremarkable enough to be the name of a place in Thoben. It’d been in such a state of disrepair and disuse on his prior visits that he hadn’t even known its name, and he frankly wasn’t sure if it even _had_ one.

If the name _is_ new, whoever christened the thing needs to retire their quill and pick up a cudgel, because that shit is so uncreative it makes _Styx_ want to pass it up to find someplace more interesting.

 _Or less popular,_ Styx amends, because despite the lack of drunken rabble-rousing, he can clearly see through the window that the tavern has appreciated a small boom in business in his absence. There’s a few humans he doesn’t recognize at the bar and scattered at the different tables. “What is Helledryn thinking?” he mutters. “She better have a private room, or she'll be getting an earful about this..."

Speak of the devil – Helledryn and Djarak round the corner on the wooden walkway approaching the tavern. Styx sighs in mild frustration, mentally preparing himself to climb through a window and follow where they lead. But when they arrive at the door, they just _stand_ there. Styx glares from the shadows, willing them to go inside already. It’s getting cold out here.

“Styx!” Helledryn calls into the darkness, and Styx almost falls from his perch across the street in shock.

“What!” he hisses back.

“Come down here, will you?”

Styx stares at Helledryn, then glances at Djarak – but he’s no fucking help, just smiling in vague amusement up at the dark place where Styx has revealed himself to be.

Fucking pain in the ass elf.

“And why the _fuck_ would I do that?” Styx stage whispers, glancing up and down the wooden walkway to make sure Helledryn hasn’t attracted any attention with her shouting. The lamplit walkways creak in the wind, but he can’t even hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Just trust me,” Helledryn says.

Styx opens his mouth to tell her to fuck off and that he absolutely does _not_ trust her, but the words don’t come out. He’s trusted Helledryn with his life on multiple occasions, and she’s never let him down before.

Gods fucking damn it.

Styx swings down to the walkway and lopes into the light, scowling at Helledryn’s knowing smile. “Yeah, yeah, what’s the big idea? If you had a plan, you should’ve said so before we left your office.” Djarak is still frustratingly silent, face giving Styx absolutely nothing he can work with. He turns back to Helledryn. “So? I’m thirsty, gimme the run-down.”

“All right, here’s the plan,” Helledryn says conspiratorially. “We’re going to walk in... the front door.”

“Uh-huh,” Styx says, folding his arms as he waits for the rest of it.

Helledryn just keeps smiling, and it dawns on Styx that that’s it. _That’s_ her plan.

“Are you crazy? Don’t answer that,” he says, jabbing a finger at Helledryn as she opens her mouth. “That’s not a plan, that’s fucking suicide. I didn’t slip out from under your Carnage squad’s nose for _months_ just to get myself killed by waltzing into a human establishment!”

“But you trust me, right?” Helledryn says, grinning infuriatingly.

Styx crosses his arms again. “Given the circumstances, I’m reconsidering that.”

“I’ll pay for your drinks,” Helledryn cajoles instead of explaining herself.

Styx takes a whiff of the air and smells cooked meats and breads wafting out of the tavern. “And food,” he insists. Helledryn nods easily enough, and Styx pushes his luck by adding, “Djarak’s, too.”

“Naturally. He’s our guest,” Helledryn says, like _any_ of what she’s suggesting is _natural._

“Fine,” he says, convinced. He’s a sucker for free food and drinks. “But at the first sign of trouble, I’m bailing.”

By Djarak’s silence, he’s obviously taken a liking to Helledryn, since he’s not giving away her game. Helledryn knows how to drink her way to a good time, and if Styx can’t help Djarak loosen up like he planned, then he’ll satisfy himself with having delivered the elf to his new drinking buddy. Styx will just get wasted somewhere else, and congratulate himself on a job well done.

“I’d expect nothing less,” Helledryn says, still with that satisfied little smile as she spins around and sweeps through the door, her cloak trailing after her.

Once they’re alone, Styx gives Djarak an arch look, which the elf has the gall to return. “Do you know what she’s planning?”

“Yes,” says Djarak, the fucking _rat,_ “but I’m interested to see how it plays out, so I won’t be spoiling the surprise.”

“I’ll show you a fucking surprise,” Styx grumbles, walking in after Helledryn. Djarak follows behind him.

The dining room of the tavern is pleasantly warm, courtesy of a roaring hearth halfway across the wall opposite the bar. It’s more sparsely inhabited than Styx could tell from the window, but his hackles still rise at the sight of a few armored guild guards. No one seems to take notice of him or Djarak – probably the guild guards acknowledged Helledryn before they followed her in, and their attention has since returned to their food and drink.

Styx follows Helledryn to the far end of the bar, where she sits and gestures in invitation to the seat beside her. Styx glares as he climbs onto the bar seat, and he turns to face the room so his back isn’t to anyone but Helledryn and the bartender, whenever he shows up. Djarak takes the seat on Styx’s other side.

Ordinarily, being flanked in hostile territory would bother Styx. But he's forced to admit, to himself if no one else, that Helledryn and Djarak are the only people that have had plenty of opportunities to kill him and _haven't._ Haven't even _tried_ – well, Helledryn hasn't. Djarak did make an attempt or two, but Styx has decided he won't hold a grudge over it (except when Djarak is being particularly stingy with the amber, when Styx's mouth gets away from him and he snaps that if Djarak wanted him to die he should've just done it properly the first time).

The sound of the kitchen door falling shut makes Styx glance over to the bartender, who looks at him with recognition and surprise. “Styx,” the man says, glancing at his drinking companions. His eyebrows climb right up into his hair when he sees Guildmaster Fucking Helledryn sitting beside a goblin like nothing’s amiss. “Er… Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Styx says neutrally, still keeping one eye on the rest of the room. “Been busy.”

“What d’you have on tap?” Helledryn asks, and in short order there are three generous tankards of beer on the bartop.

Styx pulls his mug toward him. “How’s Ephron?” Styx asks the bartender, only half-caring as he tips his mug back and drinks down a gulp of deliciously bitter alcohol. Djarak sniffs his mug’s contents, looking unconvinced.

The bartender winces at the question, and that catches Styx’s full attention. “He, ah..."

“I arrested him,” Helledryn says, sparing the bartender the awkwardness of saying it. Styx looks at her incredulously, and her scarred lip twitches up in a smile as she says, “You wouldn’t _believe_ the kinds of people he was consorting with.”

“What the _fuck_ Helledryn,” Styx says. “It’s shit for business if you go around arresting my employers, y’know. Not exactly a lot of people willing to hire a _goblin_.”

“And yet there are two such people sitting beside you,” Helledryn rejoinders. “Besides, it’s shit for _my_ business if I let people steal my guards’ wages.”

“Eh,” Styx says, drinking his beer with more enthusiasm this time. He wipes his mouth and says, “Fair enough.” The bitter drink washes down the last traces of amber lining his mouth and throat, and he shudders with anticipatory discomfort as the first tendrils of amber cravings seep into his brain and tongue.

He already made his choice, Styx reminds himself. Not like he can back out of it now that his amber stock is gone.

Djarak finally tastes his drink, his mouth twisting with open displeasure when he slams the mug back down in surprise. “Why would anyone _drink_ this?” he asks.

The bartender looks like he’s too bewildered by the scene unfolding at his bar to be offended, but Styx still says, “Don’t mind our friend. He’s a teetotaller.”

“I beg your pardon?” Djarak says, turning on Styx.

“He means you can’t hold your alcohol,” Helledryn supplies. Then she turns to the bartender and says, “Perhaps some wine for our elven friend, if you have any.”

The bartender nods, apparently eager for an opportunity to extricate himself from the situation as he vanishes into the kitchen again.

“I fail to see what holding it has to do with the taste,” Djarak says.

“Oh shit,” Styx says, laughing, “You don’t know _any_ drinking slang?”

Djarak sniffs. “I know enough.” He drinks from his mug again, as if to prove he can, before he grimaces in disgust and shoves it toward Styx. “ _Here._ I can’t stomach this swill.”

“We’ll see how you feel after a few glasses of wine,” Styx says, but he accepts the offered mug anyway after quaffing the rest of his own. He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and his shoulders stiffen when he recognizes it as the glint of guardsman's armor.

He's distracted from this observation when the bartender emerges from the back room with a glass and the bottle of wine Helledryn'd asked for. “Here you are, master…”

Djarak stalls and furrows his brow, before realizing the man is asking for his name. “Djarak,” he supplies cautiously.

“Master Djarak,” the bartender says agreeably, pouring some of the bottle's dark contents into the glass and placing it before Djarak with a flourish.

“Didn't know you were a such a showman, Toby,” Styx jibes, remembering the bartender's name now. It's been a while.

Toby sniffs. “It’s _Tobias._ And I may have tidied the place up, but I doubt most of my customers would appreciate the effort.” It's clear he's calling Styx uncultured, not that Styx cares – but he seems to realize that present company and the entire guild are categorically included in the insult, because he falters and says, “Er, beggin’ yer pardon, Guildmaster Helledryn.”

Styx snorts and side-eyes the woman, but she doesn't seem to have taken offense.

“No pardon necessary,” Helledryn assures him with a crooked smile.

Djarak looks like he's trying not to be flattered at receiving special treatment for having patrician taste. He swirls the wine glass, smelling it, and – huh.

“Thought you didn't 'carouse’ like us lower races,” Styx says. It's obvious that Djarak isn't a novice at appreciating wine, so Styx is curious to hear the elf make his excuses.

“Some ceremonies occasionally called for… libations. But no, we do not drink to excess.”

“Might be a worthwhile import for Korrangar,” says Styx, peering with mock-thoughtfulness into his beer.

Djarak's flat glare tells Styx _exactly_ what the elf thinks of exposing his people to the vices of humans. But when he finally sips his wine, his eyes light up. Styx can't help watching the path Djarak's tongue makes across his bottom lip, chasing the taste.

“How is it, Ambassador?” Helledryn asks, since Styx is too distracted to.

“It's sweet,” Djarak says, sounding surprised. He tips it back for a larger sip. “What is it?”

Toby preens. “Blackberry wine, from the mainland. I invested in a few crates when we had a little extra left over from renovations, but, ah…”

“Forgot your customers don't have the refined palate for it?” Styx snorts.

Toby looks vaguely distressed, which means Styx got it in one. Poor bastard.

Helledryn downs the rest of her mug and gestures for a glass of her own, to which Toby obliges and wrings his hands. She sips it slowly, looking thoughtful. “I imagine if the Guildmaster offered it at her table, you wouldn't have any problems selling it.” Helledryn nods, decided. “I'll buy a crate.”

“Oh,” Toby says, wringing his hands even more fervently than before. “Guildmaster, I'd be downright – that is to say, I deeply appreciate…”

Helledryn waves a hand. “I'll send someone for it later in the week, with payment.”

Toby nods, Helledryn's generosity having rendered him speechless.

Styx looks at his mug and considers downing it in one go, so _he_ can see what all the fuss with the wine is about (he doesn't like nursing more than one drink at once – makes it hard to keep an eye on both, in case someone has a mind to slip him something nasty). But he can't muster the devil-may-care attitude to commit to intoxication in a room full of potential threats.

Sure, The Brown Bird is dimly lit and everyone else is already drunk, but Styx can't be at ease in a room half full of guards. He doesn't know what Helledryn thinks she's playing at.

“Guildmaster!” comes a shout.

Styx flinches.

Clanking armor announces the arrival of Helledryn's underlings – two of them, by the sound. Styx decides to keep facing the bar. At this point, his best bet is to avoid their notice. Maybe they're drunk enough to mistake him for a dwarf.

“What can I do for you, boys?” Helledryn asks agreeably.

What the _fuck_ is she doing? Styx grips his tankard tightly in both hands, and amber light spills into the corners of his vision as his eyes dart across the back of the bar in search of an escape route. He can jump over the counter and into the back room – there might not be any windows back there, but he can lure them into the cellar, take them out one by one –

“Styx?” Helledryn is saying.

Styx shoots her an amber-bright glare full of all the incredulity and betrayal he can muster on his mean little face. But looking at her face in the lamplight strains his amber vision, so he lets it flicker out. _“What?”_ he snaps.

Helledryn gestures, and Styx turns in his seat to see that the two guardsman are – just standing there, giving him these neutrally expectant looks. He narrows his eyes mistrustfully.

“These are some of my officers, Captain Bertram and Lieutenant Farley.”

The two guards nod in sequence as she says their names, ostensibly so Styx will be able to tell them apart – which strikes him as a strange consideration to extend to someone they plan to run their swords through. Farley even lifts a gloved hand in a friendly little wave.

Must be why he's still a lieutenant.

“I've mentioned Styx,” Helledryn says, which prompts a glare from Styx, because she _what?_ “And of course, you already know Ambassador Djarak.”

“We haven't been formally acquainted,” says Bertram. “'s an honor to make your acquaintance, Ambassador.”

“Likewise,” says Djarak with a subdued smile and a nod. His movements aren't as crisp and efficient as usual, Styx notices, and he wonders if the elf is already feeling the effects of the wine. A glance at his glass reveals it's empty, and Tobias is discreetly refilling it as the conversation goes on without him.

Bertram and Farley shake hands with Djarak in turn. Then they look to Styx expectantly.

Styx raises an eyebrow. “I'd shake to commemorate the occasion, but I haven't washed my hands.” He lifts his right hand and wiggles his fingers in imitation of Farley’s little wave, displaying his calloused, grimy palm for their inspection.

Bertram barks out a laugh, and Styx is ashamed at the way it makes him jump. “Not to worry, Master Styx. We just got off shift. A little dirt isn't gonna scare us off.”

 _Master Styx,_ Styx mouths in disbelief, as Farley ventures with something like relief, “Inspection was this morning, anyway.”

Bertram gives Farley a stern look, as if to chide the lieutenant for being glad inspection is behind him. Farley looks abashed at his superior's silent scolding.

Styx is still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this easy camaraderie is happening _right in front of him,_ like they’re completely at ease with him sitting there.

“Well, he's not wrong,” Bertram relents. “But I'd shake hands with a swamp troll if it'd done what _you_ did for Guildmaster Helledryn!”

“Oh, yeah? And what'd I do for Guildmaster Helledryn?” Styx looks at her, only for his look to crumple into a glare when he sees her smiling at the proceedings like she's _amused._

“You helped her escape Korrangar,” Farley says with awe in his voice. “Defeated an orc to do it, she said!”

‘Defeated an orc’ is an extremely generous interpretation of ‘used his knowledge of simple machines to trick it into stepping over a pit trap and falling to its death’. Styx tsks and raises a brow at her. “It's not like you to stretch the truth, Helledryn,” he teases.

“It's not like you to be so modest, Styx,” Helledryn throws back.

Styx scowls. He's not being _modest,_ but he knows belaboring the point will just make these bright-eyed guards get it in their heads that Styx is some kind of _do-gooder._ The thought makes him ill. “All right, ya got me,” Styx relents, buffing his nails on his leather pauldrons. “I _may_ have been crucial to Helledryn’s escape. Pretty sure Djarak was there, too, if you wanna ask him.”

When Bertram and Farley turn to Djarak in surprise, Djarak is sipping at his newly-replenished wine glass. “Perhaps I’ll regale you with the details another time,” he says, with only a few words slurred around the edges. The wine must _really_ be getting to him at this point, because he turns to Styx and blurts out, “Now are you going to shake hands with these fine public defenders, or are you going to keep us in suspense until sunrise?”

Styx almost forgot that he’d successfully deflected the social nicety, but now Bertram is sticking out his hand and saying, “Put ‘er there,” and Styx is staring at the guard’s heavy armored gauntlet like it’s a snake poised to bite.

Styx doesn’t _do_ touching. Nobody _touches_ him, not unless they’re trying to kill or capture him, or he’s paid them to do it – and even then they only do it sparingly. Even his dim-witted siblings only ever roughhouse and wrestle with each other to strengthen pack bonds, or whatever – Styx has no idea how other goblins work out their pecking order, but he’s sneered at it from afar and wondered what on earth they got out of the arrangement.

And now there’s a guard holding out a hand for him to take, and it’s all Styx can do _not_ to sneer at it. He’s been at the business end of armored hands like these more times than he can count, and it makes his skin crawl that he’s expected to put his own hand into Bertram’s _willingly._

If this ends with him locked up in a prison cell, he’s going to systematically dismantle Helledryn’s precious little guild from the inside out, and then he’s going to kill her.

And if it ends with his green guts all over the polished hardwood floor, he’s going to haunt her until she goes so mad with paranoia that her lackeys do it for him.

Grinning with bravado he doesn’t feel, Styx clasps his hand with Bertram’s.

He stiffens at the firming grip and the feeling of sudden movement – but Bertram just bobs their hands twice before before releasing Styx’s, dropping his hand to his side. Styx hasn’t ever shaken someone’s hand (and he can’t decide if that’s pathetic or a point of pride that he’s avoided it this long), so his hand dangles weirdly in the air afterward.

It’s convenient placement when Farley reaches out for a handshake of his own, though, and Styx manages that one a little better.

He’s a quick study, after all.

That doesn’t stop him from feeling light-headed when the social obligation is fulfilled, like he’s just pulled some death-defying stunt and lived to tell the tale. He hides it well, picking up the beer Djarak gave him and letting it wash away the dryness in his mouth. “So, any particular reason you wanted to introduce us, Helledryn? Apart from smoothing over goblin-human relations, that is?”

“Something like that,” Helledryn cedes, and some kind of silent communication happens with their eyes, because Farley steps forward.

“My da’s a carpenter,” Farley says. “Guildmaster Helledryn was sayin’ you needed some work done on your home, and, well…”

Styx raises his brows in mute invitation for the lieutenant to _spit it out,_ but Farley doesn’t complete the thought. Styx glances at Helledryn. “I asked for a king-sized mattress, not a complete overhaul.”

“And you’ll get it,” Helledryn assures him. “But since you’re off the amber, I didn’t think you would appreciate me honoring _that_ part of our deal.” She shrugs. “A substitute seemed in order.”

Styx crosses his arms. He doesn’t appreciate her presuming upon his wishes like that – he appreciates her discussing his addiction problem in public even less, but that’s a grievance to lay at her feet in _privacy,_ like a _civilized_ being. “And what if I like my hideout the way it is?” he demands.

Djarak and Helledryn _both_ snort at that, and Styx cannot _believe_ they’re double-teaming him like this. He turns his indignant glare on Djarak, but he has to look away almost immediately; the drunkenly hazy, openly fond expression on the dark elf’s face makes his chest tighten – like his lungs are being squeezed by a loop of searing hot chains.

“I’ve _seen_ where you live, Styx,” Helledryn reminds him.

“And that makes you an expert on my needs, is that it?”

“As a frequent guest of yours,” Djarak slurs imperiously, like imposing on Styx’s hospitality gives him a _say_ in the matter, “your home _could_ stand to have more protection from the elements...”

The four pairs of expectant eyes on Styx make his skin itch.

“Ugh,” he says, tossing his hands into the air. _“Fine._ But I don’t want a bunch of strangers knowing where I live.”

“Your privacy won’t be jeopardized,” Helledryn assures him. She slaps his shoulder reassuringly, and Styx flinches. Why is everyone so _touchy_ tonight? “We’ll work out the details later.”

“Sure,” Styx grumbles, and Bertram and Farley bid the trio a pleasant evening as they head back to their table – where there are more guards, who look no less shocked or alarmed by Styx’s presence than the other two had.

When the _fuck_ had Helledryn told people about him?

Styx spins around in his chair and quaffs the not inconsiderable remainder of his beer. As he wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, he gripes, “You coulda’ fuckin’ _said_ something.” The guards’ unusual tolerance had obviously been what Helledryn brought him in here to see, but he could've done without the near-heart attack, thanks.

“And miss the look on your face?” Helledryn laughs at Styx’s growl. “Not a chance, you slimy booger.”

“If anyone here is slimy, it’s _you.”_ Styx pushes his mug away and gestures for Tobias to bring him a glass, so he can see what all the hubbub is about this fancy wine. The corner of Tobias’s mouth quirks strangely at the corners, and it takes a moment of Styx narrowing his eyes to figure out why. “What’re you smiling at?” Styx demands.

Tobias shrugs and pours him a glass of wine. “‘s just nice, isn’t it? You, gettin’ along with the guards and all. Walkin’ around in – well, not _broad daylight,_ but with Guildmaster Helledryn’s efforts, maybe you’ll get there, eh?”

“I’m a night owl, so don’t fucking count on it,” Styx grumbles. But it is… nice, he guesses. If Helledryn spreads word that the resident talking goblin is a friend of hers, that would make things a _lot_ easier for him. He wouldn’t have to sneak around everywhere, which is getting harder all the time with the ubiquity of those damn oil lamps. He could even do his own shopping, instead of having his contacts in the criminal underworld do it for him – and charge him up the ass, to boot.

Helledryn probably realized dragging Styx into the public eye would, apart from being a nice gesture for a friend, put a greater dent in the skill set of Thoben’s criminal underbelly than any of her other provisions.

He’d admire the forethought in a plan like that, if she’d thought to just fucking _tell_ him.

“Are you still upset?” she asks. He's not exactly hiding it, with his hunched shoulders and determined scowl, so he doesn't dignify that with a response. “I thought you'd be pleased.”

He hates the way his keen ears can pick up on the thread of genuine hurt in her voice. “Don’t like surprises,” he says, because he's not about to _thank_ her, but he inexplicably feels the need to explain why he's acting so ungrateful.

An arm lands across his shoulders, and that'd be unpleasantly surprising, too – if Djarak didn't have to lean so far into his space to do it. His bone white hair tickles Styx's cheek. Styx blows air out of the corner of his mouth to try and get it out of his face, with mixed success. “But my visits are always a surprise,” Djarak says. His breath smells like blackberries and alcohol. “And yet you're _always_ so pleased to see me.”

Actually, Styx cusses and makes a stink every time Djarak shows up to wrestle him out of one of his depression piles. The brand of humor is close to Djarak's usual fare of dry sarcasm, but the touchiness is... new.

Styx is glad that he hasn't slapped anyone's hands away for touching him this evening, despite the urge to do so tempting him fiercely. If he had, it would be difficult to explain why he allows Djarak the liberty. His warmth – and he _is_ exceptionally warm, though Styx doesn’t know if that’s natural for the dark elf or a result of the alcohol – seeps easily through the satiny dwarven cloak. It soaks into his shoulders, a tingling warmth, a surety of touch that takes for granted that it's welcome.

Styx masterfully suppresses a shiver.

“Yeah, well,” he says, subdued, “it’s not like the hideout is on Thoben’s mail carrier route, so you can’t exactly give me a heads-up when you're gonna drop in unannounced.”

“That can be arranged,” Helledryn offers.

“If you arrange _that,”_ Styx says, jabbing a finger at Helledryn’s face (somewhat complicated by Djarak's hanging on, but Styx is careful not to dislodge the dark elf), “I’ll arrange for _you_ to have an unfortunate accident under a chandelier somewhere.”

“Chandeliers aren’t an interior design staple in Thoben, Styx.”

“Then I’ll take you for a long walk off a short pier. That suit your geographical scruples?” The threat is diminished somewhat because Djarak’s hair is still falling in his face. It’s distracting Styx from his argument with Helledryn. _“Ancestors,_ Djarak, how much did you drink?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say,” Djarak says airily, swaying in his seat. The movement places even more of his weight across Styx’s shoulders, and Styx can _handle_ that – he can carry an unconscious guard in heavy armor soaking wet over one shoulder, after all – but Djarak is dangerously close to tumbling off his stool.

Styx herds Djarak more firmly into his own seat, placing one hand on the elf's spine and one on his chest, just below his ribs. “Easy, Djarak.” He’s so _warm._ Styx feels his cheeks grow warm, and he glances up at Djarak’s face to see if the dark elf has noticed. Luckily, Djarak’s blown pupils are fixated on the hand on his chest.

“Your hands are _enormous,”_ Djarak marvels. His arm slides away from Styx’s shoulder, and the goblin only has a moment to regret the loss of the gentle weight and warmth – because Djarak then takes Styx’s hand in both of his, turning it this way and that.

Styx snatches his hand away – luckily Djarak doesn’t topple over at the sudden lack of support. “All the better to strangle you with, if you keep that shit up.” He doesn’t actually have a problem with this new, touchy Djarak. But if he lets all this PDA fly without comment, Helledryn definitely won’t let him live it down. He can already see some jibes sparking to life in the twinkle of her smiling eyes. _Ugh._

“Feeling divulgatory yet, Djarak?” Helledryn asks indulgently, as if she's caught on that Djarak's claims of privileged knowledge were just a ruse to get her to drink with them. Well, joke's on her – it wasn't a ruse, but Djarak is probably too incoherent to discuss business _now._

“Pardon?” Djarak slurs, his eyelids fluttering dangerously – dangerous because it means Djarak is close to falling off his stool, and dangerous too because of what it's doing to Styx's blood pressure. Gods alive, even drunk off his ass Djarak is gorgeous.

It’s not even _fair._

“The job offer you have for Styx?” Helledryn prompts, though she doesn’t look like she’s expecting much. She gestures for a refill of wine, which leaves their bottle empty. Tobias offers to bring out another bottle for the road, to which Helledryn nods.

This leaves them conveniently alone when Djarak says, “Oh! Yes,” and leans on Styx again, beckoning Helledryn closer. She’s apparently all too happy to indulge the drunken elf, for she throws her own arm over Styx’s shoulder to join Djarak’s. Styx wobbles, glaring at them both.

“Would you idiots get your hair out of my face?” Styx complains.

Helledryn tucks her hair behind her ear, and seeing Djarak struggling to process the request, she tucks the elf’s hair back for him. Styx tamps down a rush of jealousy. He tells himself he _definitely_ couldn’t have touched Djarak’s hair without a smart remark from Helledryn, so there’s nothing for it. At least he won’t be sneezing or blowing hair out of his face.

“I want our good friend Styx,” Djarak says, in a remarkably discreet whisper for his level of intoxication, “to spy on a dwarven delegation coming to Korrangar.”

Helledryn’s indulgently amused expression fades for her much more business-like sternness as she and Styx exchange intrigued glances. Helledryn is the first to quietly ask, “To what end?”

Djarak clears his throat. “Naturally, you two know Korrangar has recently ended hostilities with the dwarves.”

Styx catches on. “And you think the dwarves are still harboring some hostility for Korrangar?”

Djarak leans back, swaying and just barely catching himself on the bartop. Good grief, Tobias should have cut Djarak off three drinks ago. “That,” he says a little louder, “is what I’d like you to find out.”

“I’m interested,” Styx says slowly, “but I should warn you that dwarves have particularly keen noses. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly smell like roses and sandalwood.” It would be difficult for either of his companions _not_ to notice his smell, come to think of it, what with how they were just leaning inches from his face. Helledryn hasn’t moved, actually, but Styx is feeling too buzzed to object to her arm settling into the place where Djarak’s had been.

It doesn’t feel _awful,_ Styx grudgingly admits – if to no one else but himself.

Djarak hums in thought, eyes roving down Styx’s body as if to assess his stink quotient by sight. The alcohol makes the path his eyes take hazy and lazy, and it has the effect of making Djarak’s gaze feel more _sultry_ than assessing.

The shiver that crawls from the base of Styx’s skull right down to his tailbone comes over him unexpectedly, or else he would have suppressed it. Helledryn still has an arm around him, after all, and she’s bound to notice a reaction that intense.

Styx determinedly does not meet Helledryn’s eyes.

“Surely their sense of smell isn’t _that_ strong,” Djarak protests.

“It’s that strong,” Styx insists. He reaches out for his yet-untouched glass to taste the lauded wine, and to distract himself from Djarak’s facial expressions. It’s – _really_ sweet. The taste cloys into the corners of his mouth and between his teeth, making him grimace at the tangy kick of fermented sugars. Styx makes a sound of disgust and pushes it away.

Djarak’s glass is empty, and he reaches for Styx’s almost absently.

Styx slaps his hand away. “No way, buddy. I’m cutting you off.”

Djarak snatches the glass anyway, sniffing at Styx’s rudeness. “I think I’m capable of making my own choices, _thank you_ –”

Djarak tilts the glass toward his lips.

Styx panics and slaps it out of his hand, splashing wine across Djarak’s lap and sending the glass onto the hardwood floor, where it shatters.

The tavern is suddenly silent, and Djarak’s expression is _thunderous._

Styx sighs and rubs his temples. He feels a headache coming on. “You _can’t_ drink from my cup, Djarak.”

“And why not?” Djarak demands, sobering quickly in the face of a perceived slight. “You drank from mine, didn’t you?” His eyes turn narrow and cold, and his mouth sneers with the kind of cruelty Styx hasn't seen on his face since their first ill-fated meeting. _Ouch._ “Considering your _own_ vices, I find it hypocritical of you to try and limit my drinking with excuses like–”

“My saliva is _toxic,”_ Styx snaps. “So unless you wanted to wrap up the night by meeting your maker, I _think_ I just did you a favor. _Please,_ correct me if I’m wrong!”

As if by mutual agreement, Styx and Djarak reach for each others’ throats at the same moment, old enmity igniting quickly with so much alcohol to fuel the fire.

They’re stopped short by Helledryn’s hands on their scruffs, throwing the inebriated pair off balance. When did she get behind them? Their arms slap limply against one another.

Styx scowls and reaches for another swipe.

“ _O_ -kay!” Helledryn says, jostling them with her grip until nausea overcomes the ire in their expressions. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Come on – time to bed down for good little pointy-eared boys.”

Helledryn herds them out of the tavern, but they don’t make it far before they have to stop walking in deference to Styx and Djarak’s nausea. The two of them sit on the wooden walkway with their legs dangling over the swamp below, while Helledryn goes back to the Brown Bird to close out her tab – after extracting grudging promises from both of them not to kill each other.

Styx leans heavily against the newly-installed railing for support. Djarak isn't doing much better, from the looks of it.

Styx didn't even _drink_ that much, and he's forced to admit that his nausea is probably a combination of amber withdrawal and stress response. Djarak had almost _poisoned_ himself, all because Styx had wanted to get the elf roaring drunk for a laugh. He hadn't even thought to inform Djarak of the dangers of drinking with a walking, talking biohazard.

Djarak burps wetly, a sound so uncharacteristic of the dark elf that it'd make Styx laugh any other time – but it's followed by a groan of such abject misery that it just makes him feel guilty.

Styx looks over at Djarak, who’s squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into the banister with a grimace. He's ghastly pale in the shadows cast by the oil lamps.

“Hey,” Styx says, softly – loud noises aren't gonna do either of them favors at this point. “You okay?”

Djarak grunts, which doesn't tell him much.

“... You gonna throw up?”

Djarak inhales through his teeth. “I haven't decided yet,” he grits out.

“Mm,” Styx murmurs. He knows the feeling. “You'll feel better if you do.”

Djarak opens his eyes and looks at Styx with such a pained, beseeching expression that it makes Styx ache with guilt. He looks like he isn't sure whether Styx is joking or not.

“I'm serious,” Styx says with a quiet laugh. “I've done it a hundred times.”

“Of course you have,” Djarak sighs, closing his eyes again. He doesn't look any less pained, but his mouth twitches like he wants to smile at the reminder that Styx is the more experienced debauchee, between the two of them.

Djarak's body quickly decides for him, and Styx holds his hair back as he purges his stomach's contents into the swamp below. He nearly pitches over the edge, and Styx hauls him back onto the safety of the walkway's center, where they sprawl in a drunken tangle. Styx imagines any passersby would get a laugh out of the picture: a goblin and a dark elf, laying on their backs in the middle of the walkway and groaning like a pair of blitzed alcoholics.

“Better?” Styx asks once Djarak has caught his breath.

“... Surprisingly, yes,” Djarak says. He still quakes with the occasional bout of post-sickness shivers, but his concerning pallor has mostly gone away. He seems to consider sitting back up, then thinks better of it and simply lays back down, staring up at the stars.

Styx sighs and scrubs his face. “Listen, Djarak…  I'm uh, I'm sorry. I'm not usually in a position to share drinks with people, so I didn't think…” Styx clears his throat. “I should've mentioned it, before...”

“No, you were right. I shouldn't have drunk to excess.”

Styx shrugs. “You don't know your limits until you hit 'em. It happens.”

Djarak starts to shake his head, but winces and cuts the movement off half-done. “That's no excuse.” Djarak draws his knees up to pick at the tacky wine stain on his pants. “I shouldn't have said that – about your vices. That was inconsiderate of me.”

It _had_ stung when Djarak said it, but Styx figures it wasn't exactly a false accusation, so he can't really complain about it at this point. “'s fine,” Styx says, looking away and digging a finger into his ear.

Djarak rolls over and struggles to his hands and knees until he's sitting up. The effort looks nauseating, but it's not like he has anything left in him to lose. “It is _not_ fine,” he says. “You've been making great strides, my friend, and what I said disparaged your efforts.” Djarak furrows his brow. “I… don't know what possessed me to say it.”

“Ah, alcohol – the devil's drink.” Styx raises a wobbly hand for an airy flourish. “Makes you say what you're really thinking.”

Djarak captures the hand in mid-flight, sending a jolt through Styx. His hands are clammy from sick-sweat and crawling around on the damp wooden walkway, but Styx can't bring himself to care about that. The physical discomfort is a small price to pay for the rush of warmth it sends pooling into Styx's chest and cheeks. Styx's self-deprecating smile falters, and when he meets Djarak's cool gaze it vanishes completely.

“Not every passing thought one has is true _,"_ Djarak says solemnly. "Hence why we do not ordinarily voice them all.”

Styx relaxes his hand, thinking it will slide harmlessly out of Djarak's grip, but Djarak follows the motion. When Styx's hand drops to his chest, Djarak's hand rests atop it, his thumb still tucked under Styx's curled fingers. “I mean, you weren't _wrong,”_ Styx offers, staring at their clasped hands.

“Yes, I was,” Djarak insists, and he squeezes Styx's hand. “You've been making admirable progress – tonight especially. You know what amber withdrawal feels like, and you chose to destroy your reserves anyway.”

“Hey, don't gimme all the credit,” Styx mumbles, feeling uncomfortable with Djarak's praise and regard. His fingers twitch uncertainly beneath Djarak's hand, but he's too buzzed and greedy for the touch to pull away. “You gave as good as I did.” He thinks of how Djarak kicked that crate into the swamp with such a ferocious snarl that it might've been Lyssril's head he was kicking. Probably that's what the elf had been imagining.

Djarak's expression looks almost bashful now. "I… appreciated the opportunity," he ventures. The corner of his mouth twitches up, and he meets Styx’s eyes as a small smile unfurls on his steely gray features.

Styx thinks he has a pretty good catalogue of Djarak’s expressions in his mental library by now. He’s diligently kept up with the new ones he’s seen tonight, to boot – but there’s something about _this_ expression that blows all the others out of the water and takes Styx’s breath away.

And then Styx realizes he’s _literally_ holding his breath, and he blows it all out in a gust as he looks away. “Yeah, well,” he grumbles, glaring at the stars as he tries to fight back the dark green flush climbing up his neck, “I uh, ‘preciate you comin’ out.”

“Mm,” Djarak hums. “I still feel disoriented, but… it was a pleasure.”

Styx snorts. "We'll see if you change your tune in the morning."

Djarak's brow furrows, puzzled. "And why would I do that?"

"You know what a hangover is?"

Judging by his expression, he _doesn't,_ and Styx is still deciding if his pity for Djarak will outweigh his glee at the elf's yet-to-come revelation when Helledryn reappears. Styx squints up at her mountainous form as she steps into his field of vision with a hand on her hip.

"I thought I told you _not_ to kill each other.”

Styx is hyper aware of the fact that they're still holding hands when Helledryn's wry expression lands on them. He pulls his hand away and lays it dramatically over his forehead, palm outward, as if he can’t go on. "Djarak betrayed us!"

"I did _not,"_ Djarak protests, pouting.

“Avenge me, Helledryn.”

"What," Helledryn says flatly, "did he kill you with kindness?"

Styx grimaces. "The deadliest weapon known to goblinkind."

"All right, up – both of you."

Djarak sways to his feet with more grace than Styx thinks he deserves, considering how gracelessly he vomited over the walkway’s edge a few minutes ago. Styx pushes himself to a sitting position and fights a wave of nausea at the sudden movement, squeezing his eyes shut at the way his vision whirls.

When he opens his eyes, two hands are extended to him – one gray and one pink.

Styx shoves their hands away with a scowl and gets to his feet under his own power.

Then he stumbles, and Helledryn and Djarak seize a shoulder apiece to stop him careening into the swamp below.

"You're not climbing back to the hideout like that," Helledryn says.

"I agree," Djarak says. His slur is masterfully concealed despite his relative inexperience, and it's not _fair._

"Yeah, yeah," Styx grumbles. The excitement of the day is starting to catch up with him, and he doesn't have enough fight left to turn his nose up at their coddling. "Party at your place, Helledryn?"

"Seems that way," she says. Helledryn didn't really get to enjoy herself since she was babysitting him and Djarak all evening. Styx feels kind of bad about it.

"Hey," Styx says, "I'm sure you've got your own agenda for dragging me into the daylight, but uh… Thanks," he mumbles, trailing off. "For tonight."

"What was that?" Helledryn asks, and her shit-eating grin makes all Styx's guilt vanish in an instant.

"I take it back," he says, scowling.

"No, no, go on – I insist," she says, insufferably. "A drunken Djarak and a grateful Styx? All my fondest dreams are coming true."

"If your next fondest dream is drowning in a filthy swamp, I can help with that, too."

Helledryn hums thoughtfully. "Better not. I don't think I could handle the excitement."

"Your loss," Styx says, and shoves her leg.

Helledryn stumbles and barks out a surprised laugh, and then she trips him. Styx catches himself on Djarak's pants leg, and Djarak only falters for a moment before regaining his footing.

"You two are strange," Djarak observes with a bemused smile.

"Don't sell yourself short," Styx says. "You're at least as weird as Helledryn."

"I resent that," Helledryn sniffs.

"And I resent you," Styx says. "Funny how that works, isn't it?"

 _"Hilarious,"_ Helledryn drawls.

Djarak's got that thoughtful expression on his face again, but Styx leaves it be for now. He wouldn't be Djarak if he didn't over-analyze every little thing.

And if Styx is honest (which he rarely is), he likes Djarak the way he is -- murderous tendencies over perceived slights and all.

"I'm calling dibs on Helledryn's bed," Styx pipes up suddenly.

Helledryn's face falls somewhere between a grimace of disgust and a grin, which looks awful. "Like hell you are."

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this is "styx: master of dicks", which my friend tori said i should divulge to my readers, because it's very good.


End file.
